


Those who help themselves

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Canon Compliant, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Missing Scene, Omega Verse, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, Revised Version, Rutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 13:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19013680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: Will’s ruts are often segmented in seconds and inches.Five times Will refuses Hannibal and one time he doesn’t.Written for the Hannigram A/B/O Library’s Big Bang, partnered withPurefoygirl





	Those who help themselves

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my dear [Jade Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purefoysgirl/pseuds/purefoysgirl) for having provided all the beautiful collages I’ve included in the text, of which I couldn’t bear to choose just one, and to [Another_lost_one](https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_lost_one) for having beta read this work, which will probably be included in a book I’m planning to publish ❀

I.

“I can help you, if you ask me to,” Hannibal declares, firm and unfazed.

Will respects his 24-hour cancellation policy, hence his late call to cancel their appointment for the following evening. His rut impends, unexpected and unyielding. Immediate in its appearance as in its inconvenience. Hearing Hannibal’s soothing, deep voice awakens an insistent, distracting impulse in Will’s clouded mind. Causes his breath to turn erratic and suggestive.

In his current state, Will distrusts his own judgement. His ache for human closeness renders him vulnerable, unreliable, of little usefulness. He scarcely managed to rein in his instinct to snarl at Jack in the afternoon, barely remembers his manners with Hannibal on the phone.

Ruts occur with an inconvenient frequency to Will. His empathy disorder amplifies his needs, yet discourages any serious attempt at pursuing a partner, in absence of whom his traitorous body seeks to relieve his crave for intimacy.

His skin endeavours to compensate for the touch starvation to which Will submits himself on a regular basis. Sensory impulses intensify, smells and noises blend. His glands swell insistently and his brain inebriates itself in chemical signs. His hormonal organism insurges against the near abstinence of affection, encourages him to rectify the situation, ultimately reducing him to an irritable, quivering _ mess _ .

Running his palm on his flushed face and coarse stubble, Will sought the presence of mind to kindly refuse Hannibal’s calming presence and warm touch. Will idly wondered about his overture. Its implications. Its motivations. Mere kindness, Will presumes. A mirroring hunger. His omegan nature.

Neither seems plausible, but together they might.

“I’m fine,” Will says with more obstination than conviction, achingly hard in his pants. Proud of himself for his resolute tone, despite his blatant insincerity. Hannibal feigns acquiescence, unobtrusive. Gracefully, politely, generous to a fault.

Will prefers to decline temporary relief than mourn undue expectations, accustomed as he is to deal with his rut in solitude. Hannibal would abandon him eventually, depriving Will of his agreeable company. At present, Will doesn’t realise Hannibal has no such inclination.

 

II.

“Let me help you,” Hannibal pleads, flaunting innocence and contrition from his respectable distance. Hands neatly kept under his folded overcoat, the picture of flawless composure, as his eyes traced Will’s sweaty neck, subtly restraining himself from crossing the security line and reaching out.

Both are aware he can smell Will’s pungent scent, interpret his feverish tremor as suffocating excitement instead of sign of an unforeseen disease. His fellow inmates, amassed along the narrow corridor, could as well. Their conversation suffers from the inadequate environment, as would Will’s residual dignity upon the arrival of his approaching rut.

Will’s exhausted exhales betray discomfort, annoyance, an intense compulsion to tease Hannibal about his supposed professional boundaries, were Will not as compromised. His shallow breaths forcefully remind Will his desperation for relief is soon to approach. 

Alana comes to him, as unyielding as Will’s inappropriate mood. Adamant in her placating role, eager to assuage Will’s hostile attitude towards Hannibal. Jack forfeits visits altogether, disappointed in Will and himself likewise, disregarding the slightest doubt about his guilt. An unstable alpha is doubtlessly more inclined, even  _ prone  _ to commit those heinous crimes Will insists on attributing to the respectable, cultured, well-established omega in front of him.

So blind, Will often reproaches himself. So willfully blind to his obscure charm, so deaf to his suspiciously understanding conversations. Pointing a gun against his head hadn’t been his wisest decision, yet a little part of Will still regrets not having pulled the trigger. Anger had mounted, spilled in thin tears past his sunken eyes, before Will realised they weren’t alone in Abigail’s kitchen anymore.

Chilton is sorely unqualified to provide for Will’s hormonal drives, he concurs with Hannibal. It would be undignifying and miserable to experience his rut in a cell, vulgar as any act of intimacy deprived of its discretion is bound to become. A singularly unappealing perspective, considering Hannibal offers to dissolve his concerns with a plain, clean injection. Perfectly reasonable, indeed a conventional solution.

It’s dangerously tempting, but a deep unease pervades Will at the mere thought of Hannibal Lecter approaching him with a needle in hand. Moaning his pleasure for his comrades’ bored ears sounds more attractive. “I prefer Frederick’s care to yours at the moment.”

 

III.

“You may require help in a matter of hours,” Hannibal tactfully informs him, eyes averted on his lathered hands, chamber music accompanying his words. Will calmly dries plates beside him in domestic quiet, wondering whether his hormonal imbalance is verging on offensive or Hannibal’s nose is just finer than most.

Will is dangerously tempted to let himself blush in earnest. Their rich dinner has whet more intimate appetites, left him anticipating. Hannibal doesn’t seem affected in the least by Will’s wanting, willing state, perhaps revels in knowing about his slow simmer, entirely deprived of whatsoever remnant of his characteristical tiresome courtesy. His cruel pleasure at Will’s distress exhibiting without restraint.

Will enjoys his languid, cruely fond look though.

Lining clean glasses on the kitchen counter, Will retraces their placid evening in his mind. His long ride to Hannibal’s place after feeding his dogs, his deceiving sample of  _ slim and delicate pig _ , their blissful companionship in Hannibal’s warm, opulent den.

The unreserved sight of Hannibal’s deft hands, while his mind supplies recent conversations about murderous fantasies involving his condescending host. Familiar hands, which had covered his, doted on his, handled his with care.

Despite his sedentary work, Hannibal has a peculiar propensity to manual labor. His precise anatomical studies, his penchant for musical performances, his surgical experience. In his grand office as in his lavish kitchen, where a different kind of art occurs.

Hannibal is handsome and available and  _ amenable _ . Their courtship is entirely acceptable in anyone’s prying eyes, even Will’s, dangerously so, if admittedly dictated by ulterior motives. Jack questions his commitment, yet silently endorses his planned seduction; Jack would be so proud and disgusted with his performance, his perfect trap, himself as live, struggling bait.

Will is so tired of starving himself, he almost succumbs to Hannibal’s suggestiveness, almost envisions himself under his fingers, pliant recipient of his caresses and scratches, warm with easiness and feverish with madness. It’s everything Will wants.

It’s also not sustainable. Furtive touching from benevolent colleagues and temporary solutions for his deprived skin had led him exactly nowhere; his hunger could not be sated with scraps of aborted relationships, his mind not satisfied with a palliative partner or solitude. Will couldn’t settle with another one-night stand.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures Hannibal, neatly folding his wet dish towel, palms still damp with excitement and impending rut. “I’ll leave before then.”

 

IV.

Before Hannibal, Will has never required a mate, omegan or otherwise. Has in fact refused plenty of desirable candidates, claiming for himself the role of problematic partner all along. His sentiment extensively conveyed through repeated, sincerely contrite turndowns or, failing those, cold detachment. In his experience, Hannibal reacts poorly to rejection. 

“Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and never see her or Jack again.”

Hannibal has proven himself a patient man in order to achieve his desired results, hence Will relies on his obsessive obstination to catch him, to have Hannibal hanging on his own hook in delightful agony; he’s not as enthusiastic about letting Jack land him though.

Will’s alphan nature leans towards possessiveness further and further lately. His impatience makes him restless, hid guilty feelings linger, undecided, on the outcome of their vertiginous dance; on whose behalf would Will’s conflicted mind decide, when the time comes. Will sees Hannibal, the good and the bad, but cannot yet accept him entirely, cannot condone his cruel acts for the beauty within.

“Then this would be our last supper.”

After Hannibal, all that remains of his cultivated reluctance to accept a possible companion is an indelible smile and utter emotive sterility.

 

V.

“You haven’t mated with Molly,” Hannibal complacently observes,  _ teases  _ to be fair, uncorking a sealed bottle of wine. He has glanced at Will’s wedding ring along the route to their current location near the eroding bluff. Furtive looks in the escorted van, less discreet stares behind the wheel of their stolen police car. White mask concealing his unintelligible features, not his gloating gaze.

Will knew their forced reunion would inevitably lead to an awkward confrontation. Will still answered Jack’s call. Molly even encouraged him to.

Will has chosen her for her positive attitude, for her unscathed resilience. He has chosen an arrangement grounded on good intentions, fostered by their reciprocal desire for acceptance and a remedy to their solitude. Will has sought normalcy, an agreeable affair to resume and nurture his erratic stability, shedding his dense mantel of latent violence and unfulfilled expectations, basically sentencing the both of them to an utter failure in understanding each other’s true requirement, with her consent.

Will has clumsily stitched his own person suit on his father’s patched model and improvised the trickier role of loving husband. It hasn’t lasted long. Despite her considerable endeavour, Molly fails to provide for Will’s needs, as Will himself for her own.

Her soft touch hasn’t assuaged his tense shoulders, her lovely voice hasn’t calmed his mind with gentle whispers or sweet endearments, during ruts that shouldn’t  _ have  _ occurred in the first place. Will has strenuously hoped for stability in their married life, but her fierce strength merely assuages him on the surface, a poor imitation of Hannibal’s induced bone-deep relief. A temporary relief for Will’s insatiable crave.

Hannibal, on the contrary, seems scarcely inconvenienced by Will’s proximity. Pouring wine in his crystal glass with a steady hand, smelling of expensive cologne and pleasant mood, he approaches Will with nonchalance, neither repulsed by his presence nor eager to bask in it. Searches his eyes to encourage a response to his comment, like Hannibal always does.

Will expects to die in their confrontation with the Dragon, the thought has been occupying his mind since the assault in his spartan hotel room. Hannibal remains apparently unfamiliar with any form of discomfort, unaffected by the perspective of their imminent becoming; content to needle Will instead.

_ So much for this  _ _ crazy son of a bitch _ , Will thinks, bitter and irredeemably fond. Hannibal’s casual confidence stirs an inconvenient chill down his spine. “Neither with you,” Will retorts,  _ and wasn’t that a shame _ , he reproaches himself before the Dragon engages.

 

+I.

“You know,” Will approaches Chiyoh with measured steps, admiring her slender fingers as they collect soiled bandages and antiseptic, “I can handle dressing Hannibal’s wounds as well as my own.” His tone is purposefully cautious around her. His attitude meek, his words gentle, never antagonizing. It would be unkind to mention her presence isn’t required after their almost entire recovery; is in fact verging on ridiculous.

Without acknowledging his observation, Chiyoh studiously glares at him with cryptical eyes. Her expression solely conveys hostility, rather common on her features. Will doubts all betas are as well versed in concealing their emotions, though he has seldom met any of her kind.

After her brief dissection, Chiyoh lowers her gaze, dismissing her silent concerns and visibly washing her hands of her compunctions. She searches for Hannibal’s ointment with equal indifference, passes it to Will with a smooth move on her way to the nearest trash can and proceeds in her original intent to dispose of Hannibal’s used gauzes.

“Chiyoh remains for my peace of mind,” Hannibal informs Will, shoulders turned on him. His marred skin bearing Mason’s permanent brand. Will approaches him with the same attentive wariness, mind wandering as his errant eyes.

Will announces his approach with idle words, “I bet she’s such a sweet talker, you can’t resist her charm,” Will says. Hannibal matches his light tone with a small smile.

Will has assumed Hannibal’s reluctance in accepting help to be related to their precipitous move on the bluff. Has indeed respected his personal decision to refuse Will’s hands close to those injuries he contributed to inflict. Chiyoh has obligingly indulged his whims so far. She might have just reconsidered.

Hannibal needs help with painful clarity, with or without Will’s unsolicited inquiries about his current state. His inadverted stiffening at the softest hint of Will’s slick fingers conveys his evident discomfort, no further admissions necessary. “You never perceived my presence as a threat,” Will breaks their silence, covering Hannibal’s mark in medicament. Hannibal barely  _ perceives  _ it  _ at all _ lately, Will refrains from lamenting. It sounds so childish in his head. “Not with my gun to your head, nor with my knife on your neck,” Will continues conversationally.

“I fantasized about your hands around my neck probably as often as you did,” Hannibal says, unfazed. “I don’t fear them, quite the opposite in fact. I haven’t been the recipient of anyone’s attention, violent or otherwise, for a significant amount of time.”

An endearing flush flatters his bare skin where Will rubs cream. He finds it ludicrous that his touch might affect him in any tangible way. Hannibal has never been an omega dependant on bodily interactions, gentling or possession alike, if not under false pretences. Will couldn’t imagine him bending for a necessity as pedestrian as mere physical contact. “You never required it,” Will states. “You’ve always been at the center of the scene, uncaring for your suitors and admirers.” Blessed with an enviable emotional detachment.

“I reveled in unwanted attention for the longest time,” Hannibal dismisses. “While you often suffered for your lack of intimate stimuli, I’ve never experienced a serious heat. I never ached as strongly as your empathy commanded on you,” Hannibal says. “Until I met you.”

Will continues with his self-imposed assignment, absorbing Hannibal’s words as they come. Leisurely, unexpectedly. “You’re giving me way to much credit,” he answers, noncommittal.

“I killed Tobias Budge after he let me presume you were dead,” Hannibal confesses. “It had been impulsive. I didn’t recall reacting with such recklessness in my adult life,” he asserts, tone serious, turning to stare at Will with resolution. “When I saw you, with your intestines on the inside and in full possession of your faculties, if a bit concussed, I suspected your loss would have caused more damage than I had bargained for.”

Will does remember entering Hannibal’s office with trepidation, upon learning his friend had risked his life. Couldn’t wait for the statement to be taken, couldn’t suppress his relief at the sight of him whole, bloodstained and in disarray. _ A good look on him _ , Will had thought. He hasn’t forgotten his meek, precious smile upon meeting his gaze. Teeth and gleaming eyes.

Back then, Will had failed to interpret the evidence. Now it lays at his feet with embarrassing clarity. “You certainly had a troubled awakening,” Will concedes. “To be fair, you did expose your attachment to me in the most cryptical, screwed up way,” Will accuses. Slow, unsettling understanding settles in his stomach.

_ Fuck, Hannibal imprinted on me _ , Will realizes, and it almost makes sense.

An unbearable emptiness, an incontrovertible state of hormonal disorder, a traitorous desire for closeness to nurse quietly, without assistance, aggravated by persistently unfavourable circumstances. An itch difficult to scratch.

Hannibal would have detested the vulnerability and the indignity. Ruts are sudden, transilient affairs; heats work differently.

“My intentions were in conflict, and then my emotions were,” Hannibal confessed. “It was an experience gradual and inexorable. I couldn’t distinguish it from mere curiosity or a common infatuation, then I realised thoughts of you filtered through the crevices of my mind palace without my consent and defiled the limits I attempted to impose.” His voice turns distant, pensive. “I would be reminded of my condition while unconsciously seeking your touch, then suppress aggressive behaviours upon confronted with your absence.”

“Sounds about right, considering the treatment you gave me,” Will comments, bile acid still in his mouth, mind trapped behind Chilton’s bars. Hannibal had frowned so deeply upon Will’s  _ unspeakably unbecoming manners _ , for some obscure reason expecting him to conceal his hatred at Hannibal’s unwelcome sight, the first time he visited Will. “You made sure I would suffer as much as you, exposed and miserable as you were,” Will argues, fingers almost dry on Hannibal’s spine. Will admires its sinuous arch under his palm. Hannibal’s lashes tremble noticeably. “You couldn’t help it,” Will utters.

“I could,” Hannibal corrects him, “I just deliberately decided to share my feelings.” He blinks and dissolves his tangible longing. “I decided to let you see me then, as I’m letting you see me now,” he says.

Will notices his inviting perfume has spread around them in the room, inebriating him, tickling his nostrils, and considers with a hint of embarrassment and remorse whether Hannibal is in the conditions of sustaining a full heat.

Will knows he isn’t. “You could have taken suppressants,” Will says, dismayed, “could have asked to be taken to a clinic, there are plenty where credentials are not required in case of emergencies,” Will reasons aloud.

“Chiyoh offered,” Hannibal genially informs him. “I refused.”

“Of course you did.” Will surrenders to his inability to understand Hannibal’s choice. His mind has never been particularly transparent to Will in any case. “You plan to solve the situation by virtue of self-control and a discrete amount of perseverance?” Will investigates, mostly sarcastic. “I think you know I’m not exactly immune to your hormones either,” Will points out, in case Hannibal has forgotten about his easily driven nature.

Without batting an eyelid, Hannibal guides his wandering hand towards his own neck, runs it to his prominent Adam’s apple, cups his own cheek, nuzzling it against Will’s palm. Pins Will with his sharp eyes.

“Help yourself then.”

**Author's Note:**

> The last part is so much longer it feels like I cheated, but I really needed to make up for Hannibal’s lost occasions.  
> I wasn’t kidding about the book. Let me know if you’re interested, or if you spot errors I should fix.  
> [Find me elsewhere.](http://cinnamaldeide.carrd.co) [Post on Twitter](https://twitter.com/cinnamaldeide/status/1133706316260794369?s=20).


End file.
